


Heat of the night

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domesticity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting, cozy jackets, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 22:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Steve catches the flu for the first time in a long time.





	Heat of the night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051. I really prefer to write super angsty Bucky or Natasha, but I've learned that this trope is actually, like, so much more popular. Give the people what they want, right?

It’s o’dark thirty when Steve wakes, freezing and sweaty and confused.  The headache he’d gone to bed with is magnified about 800 times over, and gravity plays heavily over his body when he sits up. 

 

Thankfully Bucky’s still sleeping, peacefully for once, and Steve does his best not to jostle the mattress as he puts his feet on the floor and slips into the bathroom.  He doesn’t turn on the light, but Steve can see his pallid and slightly glistening complexion reflected in the mirror over the sink.  He turns on the faucet and scoops up a palmful of icy water, splashing it on his face.  He’s shivering when he straightens up. 

 

It’s been a long time since Steve’s felt this awful.  Years.  Decades, maybe.  It’s hard to remember so far back.  The little bugs he’s picked up and dealt with over the past few winters made him sniffle for a day.  Maybe pop some Nyquil if a cough kept him up.  But this, the fever, the chills, the paralyzing headache and inability to stand completely upright…it’s making him feel childish in addition to ill.

 

Steve paws through the medicine cabinet for ibuprofen.  He swallows a handful, and they irritate his raw throat on the way down.  Then he feels around in the dark closet for something cozy to put on.  His thin and slightly damp t-shirt isn’t doing it for him at the moment.  His shaky fingers find the hood of a fleece-lined sweatshirt, and Steve snatches it up.  The left sleeve is rolled up to the shoulder, proving that Bucky wore it last, but it doesn’t matter.  Steve shakes it back into shape and yanks it on. 

 

The sheets are frigid when Steve slides back between them.  He presses as much as he can against Bucky without blasting him with the refrigeration Steve’s sure is leaching from his pores.  His exposed neck and ear are so cold that he flips the sweatshirt’s hood and yanks it as tightly as he can around his face.

 

It’s a challenge to get back to sleep.  Steve feels like he needs to shift his position every minute or two because his low back aches, and each time he does, he’s afraid the vibrations from his movements will feed through the mattress and disturb Bucky.  The worry comes up empty, though, and Steve’s the only one that has a restless night.

 

The alarm clock begins blaring at 6:30 on the dot, and Steve’s tremendously foggy as he floats back toward consciousness.  Bucky reaches to the bedside table to silence the device, then he rolls the opposite way to investigate what Steve’s wearing.

 

“You’re especially snuggly,” Bucky comments, sleep still heavy in his voice.

 

“’S cold,” Steve says, coming to the foregone and disappointing conclusion that he’s still feeling shitty despite getting a bit of sleep.  His nose is clogged and leaking, leaving cold snot trails halfway down to his upper lip.

 

“Huh?”  Bucky blinks.  Then he seemingly puts two and two together, slipping his hand between the fleece hood and Steve’s cheek.  “You’re burning.”

 

Steve pulls a disappointed face, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  He’s still in a state of disbelief that this is happening.  But he’s in such a haze of fever and pain that it hardly matters.

 

“Stevie,” Bucky says, petting down Steve’s arm.  “It’ll be ok.  I still remember how to take care of you, you know.”

 

“I’ll be alright on my own,” Steve croaks, clearing his throat of an intrusive glob of mucous.  “Go to work.  I’m probably just gonna sleep…”

 

“I don’t think you can hear how bad you sound,” Bucky insists.  “If I leave you home alone, you’re gonna drown in your own snot or something.  I get sick time too.”

 

“Yeah, for when __you’re__ sick,” Steve replies.

 

“You think I don’t remember all those days you took off when I…really needed you?”  Bucky brings up the days when he’d first returned, an ill and skittish creature Steve’d had to nurture back into humanity.  “Or, just last time I had a bad night?  This isn’t negotiable.”

 

“Didn’t know you were the boss…” Steve says.  He tries to laugh, but ends up coughing in a wet, rattling manner.

 

“See?  You’re already drowning,” Bucky points out.  He presses his palm to Steve’s clammy forehead.  “Let me take your temp.”

 

“Don’t need to,” Steve rasps.  “Already know I…have a fever.”  Why does it feel like such a crime to admit?

 

“Gotta know what we’re dealing with, though.”  Bucky shuffles into the ensuite and piles supplies on the counter.  He emerges with the old-fashioned glass thermometer, water, and ibuprofen.  “Here, open up,” he commands, poking at Steve’s lip with the glass rod. 

 

It’s all Steve can do not to gag when the thing pushes between his lips.  He’d been so preoccupied with his feverish body aches that the pounding of his head and uneasiness of his stomach hadn’t registered.  But now, they’re melding together into empty nausea.  Steve takes a steadying breath, and Bucky chastises him for letting air corrupt the thermometer’s reading.

 

“Sorry,” he says when Bucky removes the thing from his mouth.  “I…feel kind of sick.”

 

“You are sick,” Bucky replies, looking down at the numbers. 

 

“That’s…not what I meant.”  Steve presses his cold hand to his forehead to mitigate the increasing queasiness.

 

“Ok.  You’re at 104,” Bucky reports. 

 

“You know I run hot, though,” Steve tries to explain.  “99, 99.5 is normal.”

 

“But you still only have 2 degrees to go before you fry your brain.  So let’s work on getting this down a little, huh?”  Bucky hands him the bottle of ibuprofen, which he’ll have to open himself since Bucky’s still stymied by safety caps.

 

“I already took some,” Steve remembers.

 

“When?  How much?”

 

“I don’t know.  A bunch?”

 

“How long ago was that?” Bucky demands.

 

“I don’t know, Buck.  It was dark.”

 

“You took a bunch of ibuprofen and you __still__ have a fever of 104?”

 

“It could’ve worn off by now…” Steve whispers.  The world’s suddenly gone from having an arctic chill to an equatorial blaze, and fresh sweat breaks out across his brow and under his arms.  His head throbs, and his stomach pulls up into his chest.  “Hey, Buck, I…I feel kind of…” Steve pauses to swallow thick, bitter spit.  The hinges of his jaw feel loose and prickly.

 

“Ok, hold on, one second.”  Bucky launces off the bed and bolts into the bathroom to retrieve the trash bin.  Steve’s barely holding it together when Bucky returns, shoving the white plastic receptacle into his lap. 

 

The gag feels hard enough to bring up his entire digestive tract, but only bile and spit and snot drip on top of the blanket of used Kleenex and toilet paper rolls.  The bed dips as Bucky clambers up beside Steve again.  The motion makes Steve increasingly seasick, but the arm around his shoulders is comforting.  He retches a couple more times, then chokes on a string of mucous that seems to stretch all the way from the depths of his gorge to the bottom of the trash can.  Bucky slaps him on the back as Steve hacks, agitating his increasingly sore throat.

 

Steve’s dizzy when he emerges, glassy-eyed and white-faced.  “Sorry,” he breathes, unable to muster a tone louder than a whisper. 

 

“Don’t apologize for it,” Bucky says, tentatively placing the trash can on the floor.  “It’s ok if this knocks you down a little bit.”

 

Steve wants to disagree, but he doesn’t have enough breath to say anything but. “Hm.”

 

“Do you think you can stomach some water?” Bucky asks.

 

Steve shrugs. 

 

“Maybe wait a while?” 

 

That sounds better, so Steve nods.  He’s freezing again, goosebumps popping up on his arms despite the sweatshirt he’s still wearing.

 

“Anything you need in the meantime?” Bucky asks.

 

“I’m just…so cold,” Steve murmurs, gathering the bedclothes around his waist.

 

“’Cause you’re burning up,” Bucky tells him.  “If I throw any more blankets on you, you’ll combust.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Bucky says, concern working over his face as he takes in Steve’s chattering teeth.  He maneuvers under the covers himself and opens his arm.  “Just…come here.”


End file.
